A Tale of Owls and Wolves
by Monochrome Kaleidoscope
Summary: In a land of Owls and Wolves, there are only monsters and their prey. While Thedas finds itself on the precipice of change from the events of 9:30 Dragon, two people find themselves forcefully tied together forever. An adolescent noble girl from Orlais, and a pragmatic minstrel dwarf try to outrun the Fifth Blight, assassins, and their former lives. Some may live and some may die.
1. The Grand Game

_"All of the night was quite barred out except  
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry_ _ **  
**_ _Shaken out long and clear upon the hill_ _ **  
**_ _No merry note, nor cause of merriment_ _ **  
**_ _But one telling me plain what I escaped_ _ **  
**_ _And others could not, that night, as in I went_ _ **"**_

 **–** excerpt from _ **The Owl**_ by **Edward Thomas**

 **9:30 Dragon, Halamshiral**

The biting colds of Wintermarch had reached Halamshiral as a crowd of Orlesian elites gathered within the Winter Palace in celebration of the First Day. The halls and corridors of the palace were illuminated with hues of blue, both vibrant and withered. The colors were only further enhanced by the fortress' usual gold. Crystal sculptures, almost ice like in texture and look, depicted notable figures and historic events as decoration. The curtains contrasted the blues with an elaborate black and white lace. It had seemed that the palace was made to look as cold as the days had grown.

Even colder still were the nobles that danced and conversed, drinks in hand- but never naïve to their surroundings. As one eye watched the other lords and ladies, the other watched for a knife in the back-a drop of poison in the wine. Today was more than the First Day of Wintermarch- it was also another chance at political upheaval through the Grand Game. The looks of merriment and festivity would fool only the unperceptive. Every move made, every word uttered, every reaction captured was observed and interpreted, exploited for weakness. There were no friends or family at the Winter Palace; only rumors, scandal, and political intrigue.

While most of the guests of the evening tried their hand at the Grand Game, others sought to find enjoyment through other means.

A woman stood, her pale blue gown matched the eyes that stalked the man in front of her. Her frailty and wrinkles hidden beneath a golden mask- decorated in the style of a hawk. She took a sip from her wine as she continued her conversation. "You simply _must_ attend our son's Chevalier celebration." The woman smiled at the man she held her conversation with. He was a baron- lower than the woman in status-but still valuable as an asset. His family's claim to the title of marquis in Val Foret was certainly of some merit.

"Ah yes, I've heard he was accepted into an outfit. His training shan't be too far off then." The man, returned the woman's smile with one of his own. His silver mask, almost jester like in appearance- gave an almost sinister look to his smile. It was enough to unsettle the woman, but that was the point.

"In three months' time," she paused, "We've gathered dishes from nearly every corner of Thedas in preparation," the blue-eyed woman observed her guest- the baron's nephew had nearly been disowned from his family after an incident two years ago with a Dwarven dish at his wedding festival- the catastrophe was one that haunted the family ever since.

Before the baron could speak, a young girl approached the two, her smaller frame allowing her to push through the crowds quite easily. Curled maroon hair and a smaller mask, similar in design to the woman's, were the most noticeable features on the young lady. As her light brown eyes looked up to the woman, the girl let out a smile.

"Mother," the girl questioned. "May I please go and find Sophie?" The young woman, only about thirteen years old wore a dress similar in style to her mother's- though the pale blue was replaced with a periwinkle color, and the girl's neck was hidden by delicate white fur that trimmed the gown.

"Constance," her mother paused, "This is Baron Frey of Val Foret," the woman's tone and glare alluded to the pleasantries that the girl had forgotten.

"My apologies your lordship, I am Constance Fay de Churneau." The young girl curtsied before the older man. "May I please mother?"

"Of course darling," Lady Churneau bent forward to her daughter's eye level, just slightly below her own, before grabbing her hand. "Remember what I told you, keep your mask on, and your dress clean."

"Yes mother, a woman who forgets her mask- forgets her family, and a woman who stains her dress stains her pride. You've told me a thousand times, I won't forget," the girl added to her mother's sentiment with a smirk. Most children of noble birth in Orlais were educated on most of the formalities and pleasantries that came with titles, practically from birth. Constance was no different in this regard.

"No, you won't, now run along dear." Lady Churneau stood back upright smiling at Baron Frey. "Come, let us find my husband, I'm sure his tales are much more interesting than my own."

Constance made her way through the Hall of Heroes her fingers tracing the newly constructed monuments in the hall. The delicate marble, like hardened wax to her fingertips, sent a shiver down her spine. She made her way down the stairs, as her eyes crept forward to the Servants Quarters. Here is where the elves who worked within the Palace called home.

Beside the door Constance saw her friend, a young girl- only a head taller than Constance herself. Her brown hair was twisted into elaborate curls that contoured her face- hidden by a hollow mask. The young girl wore a white dressed, accentuated by hues of grey and black.

Sophie LeClaire was the youngest daughter to the LeClaire house, a devout legacy filled with generations of children promised to serve the Chantry. Sophie's mask had always intimidated Constance, it was an emotionless face, almost marionette like in its design. The dull ebony only made the mask more mysterious to Constance.

"Good, you managed to get away from your Father," Constance learned to choke back any fear of the mask she had- as was necessary for any future player of the Game.

"I'm not sure about this Constance. You know how Mother gets, she will be furious if I disobey her, and..." She paused for a minute, surveying her surroundings as "carefully" as any adolescent might. "I have heard that there are knife-ears who live back here." Her dull horror was nearly enough to make the girl in front of her laugh.

"Of course there are Sophie," Constance said, lifting her mask.

"What if they are like those ones out in the Dales. The scary ones. I don't very much like those ones Constance." The young girl would have lifted her mask as well, but she didn't want to show her fear. She felt foolish for even saying them aloud.

"If they were those elves, they'd be in the Dales," Constance giggled slightly. "Come Sophie, you can't be afraid. I'm here." The girl gave her friend a warm smile. "Besides, I already promised Lambert that we would meet him."

"I don't care, why would you tell me that?!"

"Because I know you fancy him," Constance teased.

"Y-you mustn't say a word," Sophie stomped, though any patrons that might have heard, were too caught up in their own machinations.

"I won't, if you come," before getting her answer, Constance pushed open the door, after unlocking it with a key. Her friend had little choice but to follow suit.

"Finally, I was starting to worry," a young, almost meek voice, called out in a semi-loud whisper. A young elf boy stepped from the shadows. His brown hair was combed over well, and he wore the fanciful apron and garments assigned to all of the servants that worked at these social events.

"Who's this," the boy said in a panic, "I said, only you, Constance."

"It's okay Lambert, she's... an admirer from afar," the girl rested her hand on the boys shoulder, she felt the sting of Sophie's glare on the back of her neck. Lambert gestured for the girls to follow his lead.

The three made their way past the kitchen rather easily. The hustle and bustle of the elven workers trying to prepare meals for the guests kept their attention elsewhere. The group made their way to the gardens. Large portions of the infrastructure were still being built, but it was still quite the site to behold.

"They built this quickly," Constance said, her eyes wondering the courtyard.

"It was the first part of the palace that they worked on. Who is going to feed all of you if there aren't any elves around?" The young boy smiled, though he was hardly joking. Elves were considered inferior to humans, always the servant or the handmaid or the mid-wife. It was a role the young man had quickly become accustomed to.

"Where is _your_ room," Sophie stepped forward bravely, a strange mixture of smugness and wonderment etched onto her face. Her green eyes studied the slim young elf. She marveled at how fragile they looked, but found her eyes constantly shifting to their pointed ears.

Lambert, picking up where the girl was looking, merely shrugged her off. "My families quarters are this way, we must be careful. Some of the elders take turns patrolling the halls." The young man eyed the two before grabbing their hands and crouching down slightly- the typical stealth position- for children with a flare for the dramatic- at least.

The three made their way into the interior of the quarters. The halls were surprisingly lavish, given the intended residents. The rooms remained dimly lit by the occasional candle light, as shadows provided temporary sanctuary for the three children.

Had people actually been in the hallway, or the parlor, or in the rooms, the children surely would have been caught. Neither their attire or their actions were particularly inconspicuous, but it seemed that fate was at work. The three made their way through the corridors.

Finally they reached a room, modest in comparison to most of the Palace, but no different from the other rooms in this section of the manor. The young elf pulled a key from his pocket, before fiddling with the lock.

"Alright, come on, hurry!" The boy said in a hushed voice, pushing his two peers inside.

"Oh, this is...nice," Constance threw the boy a half-hearted compliment before making her way over to a mirror in the room. "Where is the dagger?" The girl made her way back to the male, looking into his eyes.

"Right, it's back here," the boy said sheepishly as he made his way towards a small room. Opening the door, revealed a small closet. The boy reached up to the top compartment before pulling down a small black box, its texture a smooth silk.

"You said your father obtained this from a guard-captain?" Constance gently took the small blade from the young man, handling it with care. She could see the royal embroidery upon the dagger.

Staring at it for a few seconds, the girl suddenly unsheathed the blade. She slightly twitched her wrist, playfully jabbing it at the boy.

"Constance," the boy jumped back, wide-eyed. "That isn't a toy."

"Relax, I've used one before," the girl mocked. A sudden glint sparked in her eye. Her eyes shifted, as she spun around- running out into the hallway.

"Constance!" The boy ran off behind her as Sophie followed suit. Despite her attire, Constance managed to run quickly, and she was quite accustomed to running through royally furnished homes. She twisted back around to face her pursuers, a smile on her face.

"Yield, fiends!" The young woman playfully called out to her two friends as they arrived in front of her. On their face was an uneasiness, they could see that Constance was joking around, but her sudden outburst felt eerie, wrong. They were used to her sudden grabs at attention, but tonight felt different.

"Come Constance, quit this, give him back the stupid dagger," Sophie cried this out in a whispered, whiny tone. She was never one to push things too far, and sneaking back here was already enough for her.

...

The rest of the night was sudden. Too fast. Far too fast. An elven woman rushed forward through the hall, her satchel swinging wildly. Much like Lambert, she was dressed in working attire. Completely unaware of the three in front of her, she continued forward in a panic. The woman's slender frame collided with Sophie's, but that was enough to knock the young girl over.

"Ugh...you _stupid_ knife-eared bitch," the girl yelled out with a scoff. Her comment was met with an almost confused, callous look from Lambert.

"What's going on? Come on," Constance commanded before either of her friends could react. She started off after the woman; lifting her dress with her hands as to not trip. Lambert quickly caught up to the girl, with Sophie trailing behind them.

The woman ran out into the courtyard. Unlike earlier, many elves seemed to be out now, all in a frenzy. The three almost got lost in the chaos that seemed to engulf the servants' quarters. The woman ran quickly towards the kitchen.

"Everyone is headed into the Hall of Heroes," Lambert called out to the other two, as they continued to follow the crowd that was now forming.

Everything began to quicken again. Frenzy. Chaos. Yelling. Blood. Why was there blood? Pools of it clung to the stairs and splattered remnants to the walls contrasting with the golden hues. A crowd of dignitaries and guards huddled around it- like nomads to a campfire.

The elven woman, it seemed had arrived at her destination. She pulled a large sheet from the satchel she carried. As the sheet expanded out of her hands, she gently laid it down over top of the body. Immediately, it's white coloring, tainted by a deep red.

Constance, felt her world stop, if just for a moment. Her heart burned, her legs ached from carrying her. She felt dizzy. Her mouth laid open, and her hands crumbled. She felt tears rush to her eyes, a sickness forming in her gut. _Andraste_ , she called out- but nothing came- no voice- for her mind, in an instant, became her prison. Her screams fell silent-dormant- within it. She felt her breath leave her mouth, and in that moment, it felt permanent.

Before she could do anything, she felt a warmth leave her hand. A small sharpness tickled the small of her back. The dagger.

"Don't scream, take my hand, and don't scream," a gruff voice whispered to her.

As more elven workers came to collect the body of the woman who laid slain. The sheet failed to cover her face, as they lifted her onto a makeshift stretcher. Her pale blue gown, stained with blood, matched an empty pair of eyes. Her frailty and wrinkles hidden beneath her golden mask- decorated in the style of a hawk.


	2. Smiling Faces Sometimes

A flash, a flicker. Passing, fleeting memories. Everything seemed too harsh, too visceral, much too real. A flash, a flicker. Passing, fleeting...

 **9:29 Dragon, Churneau**

 _They sat at a table, not saying much. Never saying much. Not when they fought like this. They both stared into the void, as if their worlds were caving in. Maybe they were. Constance saw her parents' empty faces, but didn't think much of it. Their indifference was a common site for the young girl- something she thought came with marriage. If it didn't bring her so much discomfort, she might have welcomed the silence._

 _The summer day was cool and inviting- shades of emerald green and a royal purple battled for supremacy in the dining room. The warmth in the room was all but hollowed by its occupants, but Constance always felt safe there. Perhaps, so did they._

 _"That bastard," the first voice in a half-hour. She whimpered, but it wasn't sadness. It was coldness, a callous and malicious intent. Tears welled up in her pale blue eyes, the room around them bringing out a tint of brown buried further into her pupils._

 _"We'll figure it out Marie," another voice spoke up- almost as if giving a lecture. It too was callous, but more aggressive- almost some sort of political savagery. It was Constance's father, he was much more fiery than was her mother._

 _Constance watched from around the corner, a wall obscuring her almost entirely from view. In some sort of strange way she hoped that they would yell- scream- do something. When they argued, when they kissed- it was always emptiness. It was always cold. Her grip tightened on the wall as the two just sat there. This memory, for some reason or another, constantly played in the young girls head. In that moment, she remembered, she never even said goodbye to him, or to mother. With that thought, the world came back into its surreal reality. As if a figment of the Fade itself, her memories became twisted- tainted- by tonight and just like that they were gone._

… _..._

 **9:30 Dragon, Halamshiral**

"Don't scream, take my hand, and don't scream," the gruff voice was one of many in a crowd of servants and guests that swarmed around the blood. As the elves carried away the body; whispers began circulating the room. Constance felt her grip on reality slipping quickly. With every harsh, hushed, word uttered on behalf of her mother she felt her world cave in a little more. The dagger was enough to snap her out of her own self-destruction.

"Let's go, now!" The voice wasn't in Constance's ear, but below her. She tried to turn, but only felt the tip of the dagger push into her, temped to pierce her flesh. She compromised, merely turning her head to see the man behind her.

"W-who are you?" It was all she could utter, her emotions swelled, her head ached, and suddenly she felt that she wasn't the only person there. It was as if every person in the room weighed on her heart, breaking it with every move made, with every utterance.

"You're only friend in this entire Stone-forsaken palace," The gruff voice was quickly losing patience. A hand jutted out and pushed the girl forward, forcing her through the crowd.

Constance felt eyes upon her, it was if the whole of Thedas had swallowed her up. They were looking, they were whispering. She wanted to stop right there. She wanted to implode from all of the chaos that surrounded her, evaporate away into the Fade. With every thought that told her to stop, a hand pushed her inches forward once more.

Eventually she felt the coldness of night whip against her skin. Its sharpness, its grit- was enough to chill her nerves. She was alone now- no stirring voices from inside of the palace. It was just her and her thoughts, and in that moment she dropped to the ground.

She let out a heart piercing cry, as her face contorted in horror and shock. Her hands rested on her dress, as she sat there on her knees- whimpering, sobbing, crying and then all over again. She suddenly felt a source of warmth cover her body, and then she felt it extend over her head. The dwarf had put a cloak over her, making sure to lift the hood onto her.

"We need to get out of here, you aren't safe." With that the dwarf tried to pull the girl up, but to no avail. He wore a green cloak himself, his hood working to hide him from prying eyes. The light however, revealed thick brown eyebrows, a mustache and a beard. His brown eyes glimmered with an orange tint in the candle light, but nevertheless they looked tired- like they were weary- and had seen too much. Despite the wrinkles that rested on his forehead, the dwarf seemed to still be somewhat young- perhaps around thirty years of age.

Constance could hear the dwarf, but couldn't heed his command. She hadn't the strength to carry herself. Her legs and hands trembled, and her mouth remained open- as she gasped for air.

The two remained there, in their places for a moment, the only voice calling out were howling winds of a winter night. The candle lights on the palace walls shined despite the winds, no doubt magic. They made a mockery of the two; unmoved, unaffected by the events of the evening. The light cared little for the on-goings of the palace, and would shine either way. Everything in this world, at that moment, felt like a transgression to the young girl. A knife in her chest that kept twisting.

"What, of my father," the girl asked- her voice almost as cold as her parents'. Her gaze looked forward, tears still stinging in her eyes, her face red from anger, and spit connecting her opened mouth. Her eyes seemed hollow, but that was just the glaze. Underneath her heart shattered like ice.

"We need to leave," the dwarf answered solemnly. She had her answer. With that, the girl held out her hand to the side of her, cuing the dwarf to help bring her to her feet much to his surprise.

The two continued forward,running now from the outer-courtyard of the palace. The candlelight faded from view, as the two ran through the darkness, to the outer gate. Finally outside the dwarf pulled the girl towards a carriage, an older man waited in the front, ready to provide transportation.

"Take us toward the Imperial Highway," commanded the dwarf, as he threw the man a pouch full of coin. The driver looked to the man, his eyes weary. The dwarf simply returned the gaze, urging him to listen.

…

The next few hours were quiet. The girl looked out of the window of the carriage, tears still welling up in her eyes. The dwarf was unsure of what to say, what to do- perhaps there was nothing. He looked to her, seeing a broken girl, a young woman who was just ripped from everything she ever knew by an utter stranger.

He wasn't entirely sure why she followed, perhaps it was because she was trying to outrun whatever horrible fate she thought was coming to her. Perhaps, her body carried her despite her mind; she was in shock, and some sort of self-preservation kicked in.

"Who are you dwarf, a bard?" The girl's voice was still frigid, and her question was enough to startle her new companion.

"Ah, n-no," he tried to explain, fumbling a bit.

"I see the lute," she retorted, her gaze turning back to the window. When she looked out, she saw fields painted in white fluff, the Frostback mountains looming far off in the horizon. The sky carried with it a frost- morning was coming- the darkness of the night began to shift into a desolate blue-gray color.

"That's right, I'm a minstrel your Ladyship," the dwarf gave a smile to the girl, but the gesture seemed only to make her sick. Her gaze kept shifting from him, to the window. She was trying to adapt, it's what Orlesians did. "Do you think a dwarf could be a bard," he questioned. "I-I appreciate that you think that much of me, but alas, the truth is much less interesting."

Constance had never truly met a bard before, and she knew very little about them, aside from what little she learned about the Game. She eyed the dwarf for a moment, before her eyes retreated back to the window. "I suppose you're right."

The dwarf looked again to the girl, it was as if his soul was trying to reach out to her own, to provide some semblance of sense or solace. He studied her for a few moments, her maroon hair still covered by her hood.

"Your Ladyship, I-if I m-may, I-I'm..." the dwarf struggled with his words. His expertise appeared only to be minstrel work. "I'm sorry for..." he couldn't quite find any words to offer the young woman.

"Your apologies mean very little dwarf," her voice was callous- as bitter as the morning Orlesian winds. Her gaze didn't falter as she peered out to see the snow filled countryside. After a few moments she realized her bluntness.

"I-I ...that was beneath me," she said meekly, trying to reconcile her harshness, she looked down. Whenever she got nervous, she became quite proficient with formalities. She let out a sigh, her breath turning to frost as she did so.

"Quite alright m'lady," the dwarf thought for a moment, before reaching into a satchel. "Here," he pulled a flask out offering it to the girl.

"Is that..." she asked, slightly baffled.

"I realize you're young, but after...tonight." He paused. "I apologize, if you don't want it, I can-" before the dwarf could reach for his satchel to return the flask, the girl reached out grabbing the container.

She took a quick gulp, eyes closed. She felt the sting of the drink permeate her mouth, and trail down her throat as she took a swig. The sudden pain made her wince, and cough slightly. The concoction smelled of old beggars on the streets, but the distraction was almost enough to sooth her for a second or two. She handed the drink back to the dwarf, wiping her mouth as she did so.

"Thank you." As she gave her thanks the dwarf nodded, giving her a small smile in some vain attempt to cheer her up. She returned it with a half-hearted smile of her own. As her lips curled upward, she felt pain well up in her eyes, more tears trying to escape her body. She forcefully held them back, looking again out the window for another distraction.

"May I ask your name, dwarf?" The girl kept her gaze away from the small man, she didn't want to continue crying in his presence.

"Your Ladyship..." the dwarf questioned, almost surprised. He quickly regained his composure. Of course she didn't trust him; she had no clue who he was. She was alone, and afraid. The dwarf let a breath out from his nose, before looking up at her. "Adolf, m'lady. Tuder. Adolf Tuder," he even managed to fumble his name.

"My name is Constance Fay de Churneau, but Constance is fine," the girl said this, almost with a laugh, she managed to force a smirk onto her face through her tears. The dwarf could see that her eyes were red from so much crying.

"Alright Constance, it's nice to meet you," the dwarf said leaning back farther in his seat. His large stubby fingers traced his tired eyes, removing eye crust as he flicked it onto the floor. He gave a small yawn, stretching a bit.

Constance herself began yawning. Her body somehow felt empty and impossibly heavy, all at once. Her eyes were tired, and became increasingly difficult to lift. The countryside became fuzzy, and while the mountains drew closer, the young girl felt herself fading away. Her body began to slump backward, as her mind drifted into the Fade. After fighting her bodies cry for rest for a few moments, Constance was soon fast asleep.

The dwarf looked on at the girl, sighing as he now looked out his own window. They had been riding for hours, but they were close to their destination. Rubbing his eyes once more, the dwarf banged his hand against the carriage wall that he once rested on. The carriage soon came to a stop, as Adolf made his way outside.

"Here is fine," the dwarf walked towards the man operating the horse and carriage.

"I humbly beg you reconsider," the driver answered. The old man said this with an eerie sense of wisdom. He spoke with familiarity, as if he had known the dwarf before him for a thousand years. The man studied the dwarf, who was now in front of him. Their eyes met. They both knew what was coming. The older man narrowed his eyes slightly, not suspiciously, but with a weariness. It was if he was accepting something, some reality he knew was coming to pass.

"I am sorry," the dwarf looked up to the man in the carriage, regret staining his face. Now it was the dwarf who had tears in his eyes- as he looked up to the man with guilt.

…

A few hours later, Constance found herself waking, the world coming back into view. She felt warmth, perhaps this was all some twisted falsehood from the Fade. She quickly sat up, the haze of being stirred from slumber began to dissipate. As the world opened itself again to her, Constance began to shatter all over again. This wasn't some dream conjured up by a Fade demon, this was reality. The dwarf lying down in a cot a few feet from her confirmed it. She hastily observed her surroundings, almost in a panic. She was in an attic. Lying down in a rather stuffy cot herself. She rose to her feet, her body still feeling weak. She observed the dwarf, who was turned over, asleep.

On the counter top beside the dwarf, laid Lambert's dagger. Her eyes danced back and forth between the dwarf and the weapon, and suddenly Constance felt her feet moving in synchronization. She made her way to it, picking it up in her hand. The blade felt heavier than before. She looked to the robe that the dwarf had discarded, laying next to his cot. She made her way over to them, searching for something, anything that could show her where she was. Rummaging through the clothes, the girl saw only a stained green robe.

She froze, in that instant. The stains, they were blood. She wasn't sure what it meant, but for that second it was as if she saw her mother lying there, lifeless, all over again. She almost let out the tears and screams that pressed her frontal lobe, ready to explode. This time, she felt anger. She looked to the dagger in her hand, as her eyes shifted back towards the dwarf.

She walked slowly over to him, observing him. His body was now turned, so that his back was against the cot. A quick motion would be enough to pierce the man. After that, she would run, somewhere. Find her brother, her uncle, someone. She felt her hand tremble, and the knife almost slip out of her grasp. Her other hand jutted upwards to correct the trembling, to little avail. Once more, her eyes flashed back towards the robes, and her hand collapsed downward.

Before the knife could plunge further, a voice called out.

"If you have the nerve, then do it," the dwarf was awake. His eyes never moved towards the girl, instead fixated on the wooden attic ceiling. His finger pointed toward his chest, "Here to end it quickly, about five minutes," he uttered as his hand trailed down his abdomen. It rested on the middle of his gut "Here, it will be a few hours."

The girl stood there in shock, unsure of what to do or say. She tried to push the dagger further, but couldn't move. Suddenly the dwarf's stubby hand grabbed the girl by her wrist. The dwarf felt her veins pulsating, her entire body crumbling.

"You come from a land of wolves, " the dwarf's voice was cold, with an intensity to it that made the girl beside him quiver. All the fumbling in his voice from before now gone.

"You learn to stalk your prey, and strike when the time comes," he continued. "That's all well and good, but it's obvious that even if you come from a land of wolves." His grip on her wrist tightened. "Your fangs are dull, and they never taught you to sharpen them."

His brown eyes studied the girl before him, even in the darkness- they could feel each other. They looked at darkness-nothingness-, but saw everything.

"Who are you," the girl demanded in a shaky voice- tears streaming down her face.

"A minstrel, your Ladyship." With that the dwarf eased the dagger out of the girl's hand and back into his possession. "Get some more rest, m'lady, we'll be leaving the inn for the highway come noon."

The girl stood there for a few moments, unable to say anything. Her body shook, unsure of who or what this man was. Afraid to anger him, the girl obeyed, retreating back to her cot.

…

A few leagues away, in the forest beyond the inn the harsh winds blew in the morning breeze. Few animals were out as the pond was frozen, and the fauna buried in fields of white. A small stream of red trickled down onto the frozen pond- like wine into a glass. As the wind howled, and the snow blew, a body lay under a tree. An older man, eyes closed, body lifeless. The blood that persisted downhill towards the pond, gushed from an open wound in his chest. Beside the man and the tree, lay the carriage, it's only passenger now a lone brown feather, stained too in red.


	3. Deadweight On Velveteen

**A/N:** _Hey there, and thanks for reading! Some of the smaller chapters will be dedicated to other characters aside from Constance and Adolf, and this chapter is one example. Aside from that, I'd just like to note that I am completely open to reviews (be they praise and/or criticism), so if you have an urge to review, I'd greatly appreciate it. Happy reading :)_

 **9:30 Servants' Quarters, Halamshiral**

The morning sun was intense, its rays colliding with the architecture of the servants' quarters. There was a chill in the air, though much of the frost from the past few days had dissipated, and there was hardly ever any snow in the courtyard given the over-arching roofs of the palace. The elves ran about the gardens, as busy as usual. The palace served as a retreat for the Empress and her close associates during the winter months, so there was constantly work that needed to be done.

Lambert felt himself still reeling from the events of two nights ago. His thoughts were corroded with images of the woman, lying there. There was so much blood. The young elf had heard from some of his peers that a man had been found dead soon after. The thought of murderers in the palace was almost enough to frighten Lambert, but he knew that no one cared enough about elves to have them killed. As his mind raced, the young man thought back to Constance, he hoped that she was alright. Her parents no doubt probably took her far away from all that mess. In all the chaos Lambert, or rather Constance, lost the dagger. His father was going to kill him.

Lambert made his way outside, the towering palace walls keeping his eyes shielded from the sun, until he stepped out into the courtyard at least. Using his hand to protect his eyes, the boy pressed forward towards the kitchen. He was already dressed to start the day; even if his clothes did smell of dracolisk piss.

Opening the door to the kitchen area, Lambert took a whiff of the aromas that traveled throughout the room. Roasted lamb, eggs, pastries, and black cherries with cream- it _was_ still morning _after all_. The young man made his way into the cooking area. A woman was cutting up the lamb, delicately placing each chunk on the platter.

"I see you're finally awake," the woman chided. "Even the Empress doesn't sleep in at this hour." the woman looked to the younger elf. She shared many of his characteristics, their olive skin matching perfectly. Her green eyes studied the boy. She was clearly tired. Her stomach protruded slightly more than the average elf, but not by much. Her look of slight disapproval soon turned to a warm one.

"How are you feeling," the woman asked.

"Mother, I'm fine." Lambert gave his mother a look before walking to her side. He picked up a handful of the elfroot that lay in a dish on the table. He decorated the platter in various spots with the green leaves, though not as carefully as his mother had been.

"No, I want you in the gardens today," his mother rearranged some of the leaves in the dish, before returning back to her cutting.

"Mother, you made me tend to the gardens all of yesterday. I promise, I'll be alright." The boy backed up, leaning now against a small wooden table.

"Your father..." she uttered in an exasperated tone as she chopped through a thick piece of the meat. "Your father worries for your safety, you know that," she continued.

"When things like what happened two nights ago occur, it becomes difficult to maintain a low profile. Your father doesn't want anything happening to you...not because of some accident of birth." The mother finished with the lamb meat, as she made her way over to a bucket of water, dipping her hands in it to clean off the remnants before drying her wet hands on her apron.

"Mother, we're servants, that is as low as I could possibly be." Lambert said this with a hint of disdain. He hated the idea that his people were reduced to servitude under humans, that they couldn't aspire to anything higher. Even at his young age, Lambert showed an ambition to be more.

Lambert's mother sighed, arguing with her son was often times a battle already lost. She smiled at him before placing her hand on his cheek. She felt his warmth, his youth, it wasn't something she could bare to see tarnished.

"I can hardly believe you'll be fourteen years of age come Drakonis. _Andraste_ , the girls will be jumping you soon enough." She smiled at her son, trying her best to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Lambert could protest, the door to the kitchenette swung open. In walked an elf, slightly larger than the two elves already in the room. He had graying hair, but didn't look to be very old. Rubbing a hand through his ear-length hair the man looked to the two of them.

"There you are," the man made his way over to Lambert. Given his tone, the man seemed to be in a panic. "Lambert, were you playing with that dagger," the man asked nervously.

The man was Lambert's father, much like Lambert's mother, he was a chef. It seemed odd that he wasn't already helping to prepare the breakfast.

Lambert fumbled for a moment, his palms beginning to sweat as he looked to his father. He saw a sort of despair in the man's eyes, a sight that made him uncomfortable. He carried with him an intensity that Lambert had not seen before.

"Father, I," the boy started before looking down at his hands.

"What happened to it Lambert," his father demanded. The man was clearly in a rut, but it was also clear that Lambert and his mother had no idea what was going on.

"Josrian, what is this, what's going on," the woman walked over to her husband. She wrapped herself around the man's arm, looking to him. He returned her gaze, but it reinforced her suspicions that not all was well.

Looking into his wife's eyes, his brows twisted upward, and his tear ducts began to swell. He moved his arm as if to force her to release her hold on it. His anger and forcefulness had subsided leaving now only a discomforting sense of fear and desperation.

"Lambert, please, where is the dagger?" His father walked towards the boy, placing his hand on Lambert's shoulder.

Lambert didn't dare look into his father's eyes. "The night of the attack..." the boy continued. "I showed my friend into the servants' quarters. She was playing with it, and then when everyone started running..."

"Does she have the dagger," the father demanded once again, his voice raising. His grip on his son's shoulder tightened, not threateningly, but certainly forcefully.

The boy said nothing, and still refused to look at his father. Josrian had his answer.

"Maker," the man released his grip on his son. He sounded lost, unsure of what to do. "Menni, I need you to start gathering as much of our belongings as you can," the man continued with a sigh."Lambert, help your mother." With that, the man walked out of the kitchen area as he headed back into the courtyard gardens.

Bewildered, Menni followed suit. "Josrian, stop! What is going on?" Her voice was sharp now. There was a looming sense of anxiety and confusion. Many of the other elves turned their attention to the family. Servants who were fixing curtains looked to them from atop their balconies. The sun continued to beam, casting golden shadows around the gardens.

"There's the knife-ear," an angry Orlesian accent called out from beyond one of the gates. A group of armed men marched forward, no doubt the Empress' royal guard, the chevaliers. Behind them, two templars followed. Their presence was stoic, and their armor shimmered in the lights from the garden as shades of emerald danced on their metallic plating.

Josrian halted a few paces in front of the armed group in defeat. The chevalier who had called out the elf walked to the front of his peers. His brown eyes studied the elves that surrounded him, before looking over his shoulder to the soldiers. Two of the knights stepped out in front as they walked towards Josrian.

"Menni, please go inside," Lambert's father spoke as if he was broken. He sounded exhausted, and looked the part as he turned to his wife, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

A templar spoke up, "The apostate elf, he's nearby..." A sort of sensation surged through him; the lyrium he consumed allowing him to better sense the presence of magic wielders. With this, the templar motioned for his comrade to follow him. They both surveyed their surroundings. There was a thick tension that filled the air as the elven residents looked on. They all said nothing, no one could. They were afraid that speaking out in protest would likely result in punishment.

Lambert made his way out, coming to Menni's side, "Mother, what's going on," the boy looked on at all of the guards, noting among them a couple of templars. He suddenly felt a nervous ache in his heart, a lump in his throat. His eyes shifted back and forth between the templars and the elves that stood in watch.

"That's the apostate, his son," the chevalier from before spoke up again as his eyes shifted to the young elf. His Orlesian accent was thick, and carried a smugness with it. The templars began walking towards Lambert, who was at this point backing away.

His mother, realizing what was happening, shielded her boy from the two. "No, you have made a mistake. My _son_ is not an apostate." The woman tried to fight off the templars, pushing at them. Their armor was more than enough to protect them from her assault.

Menni began crying, and as if through her tears, the world around them fell silent. The elven woman cried out, to the Maker himself, as she struggled to fend off the two soldiers in front of her. One of them grabbed her, as gently as possible, subduing her. The other templar made their way to the young man who continued to back away. There was a sense of futility, as the woman's cries grew louder. An elder woman looked on at the scene. Given the contorted look of sadness on her face, it was obvious to see that her heart was breaking.

Not she or any other elf moved out of place, but even still most of them looked on in horror. The family was a part of their community, but there was nothing to be done. When chevaliers came to take, there was no protesting, no 'saving' anyone. When you were a servant elf, there weren't heroes. There was only survival. For them, valiant elves were things of legend- stories that belonged to the Dalish- not them.

"Do not fight boy," Josrian- now apprehended by the chevaliers- called out in a desperate and gritty cry to his son. "Do you hear me, Lambert," the man began to whimper, cry, in some last ditch effort to save his son. "You never fight them, you do as they say." The man gave little resistance to the men who restrained him. He hung his head, tears dripping from his face as they hit the soil. The men shoved him to his knees.

The templar that apprehended Lambert made his way over to the group as well, the young elf's hands were bound. The templar allowed the boy to stand unlike his father. His eyes peered out to the group of knights. His helm masked a look of disgust on behalf of the chevaliers' callousness in handling the situation.

The accented man stepped forward again, the only one from the group without a helmet. "Josrian Thelthorn, you are charged with the murder of Comtesse Elaine of Serault as well as harboring an apostate. You will be imprisoned in the name of Empress Celene Valmont the First to await judgment." The man looked down at the elf to see a face stricken by grief. His tears only affirmed the man's victory. He smirked.

"You should be thankful Josrian, we have shown you a mercy by sparing your wife, despite knowingly harboring an apostate. It would be most disappointing to see such a beautiful family ruined by such an ugly affair ." The man turned and headed for the gates beyond the courtyard, gesturing for the chevaliers to follow.

As the group, now including Lambert and Josrian began to fade from view, Menni collapsed to the ground. Her cries were no longer silent, as they rung out for the rest of the elves to hear. Once there was no sign of the soldiers left, the servants on the main floor rushed out to the woman. The elder woman from before knelt down with the distraught mother, rubbing her hair gently, holding Menni's head close to her.

…

Some of the others helped Menni to her room. They gently rested her on her bed. The red velveteen sheets did little to offer her comfort. She continued to cry, as she looked around the room. Everything was spinning, and she was trying her best to make it end.

"Menni..." the elder woman who had held her before spoke up, standing by the bedroom door. Her call snapped the mother out of her trance.

"I'll be fine ma'am. Please, I just want to be alone." Menni tried her best to stop her sobbing though it hardly worked. Her eyes stung, and her chest felt heavy.

"We'll be right outside when you need us, dear," the elder woman looked over to Menni. It was as if the elder had seen this tale for the thousandth time. Wanting Menni to get rest, she nodded, gesturing for the three other elves to follow her out of the room.

…

When the door closed, Menni began to implode. She had dealt with tragedy her entire life, and typically she would keep herself busy as a distraction. This however, was beyond tragedy. She felt a loneliness that ripped her apart in ways she never felt before- a parent without their child. She combated the flowing tears with the occasional wipe of her hands across her cheeks. She rose from her bed, and began pacing for a few minutes. She would have to handle this as she would any other situation, by working through it. It might be a distraction to fill sorrow, emptiness, but for now it was what she needed.

She couldn't just let this happen, she needed to find out what happened with this Comtesse, she needed to know how they found out about Lambert's magic. Everything tied back to the dagger, but that apparently was no longer an option she could explore.

All of this didn't make any sense. It all happened far too fast, and she knew that her husband wasn't a murderer. Something happened to the Comtesse, and Menni was going to find out what. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach, and immediately clutched the area as she eased herself back onto her bed. She wiped her eyes one last time before falling back, letting her head hit the mattress. She wrapped herself up in the sheets, her body covered in their warmth. She was never much of a hero, but Menni was – more than anything- a survivor. For now, survival meant resting. She allowed herself to drift, as her body sunk deeper into the velveteen.


	4. Ain't No Sunshine

**A/N:** _I just wanted to thank everyone for reading so far, and for the reviews I've gotten, all of it really does help me greatly. I wanted to try something with the format for this chapter by switching perspectives. Please feel free to let me know how I did in the reviews :)._

 **Academie des Chevaliers, Val Royeaux**

The capital of Val Royeaux was always so loud. Music filled the air from every window, whilst the people littered the streets and markets. The city was alive and as elegantly decorated as any noble; ornamented with white marble and drapery colored with shades of blues, golds and reds. The cities location in the northern part of Orlais managed to keep it sheltered from some of the cold of the Wintermarch month. There was opportunity in this city, as well as tradition, but there was a constant sense of urgency too. As if the delicate balance between order and chaos could be undone in an instant.

...

The Academie des Chevaliers was a means of closing out all of the bustle from the city. The academy was a highly regarded military base used for training and housing aspiring Chevaliers. The structure was a fortress in its own right, with a a wide tract of land, serving as the training ground. From within its walls, the academy had a trench that circled the entirety of the perimeter. These trenches, etched in marble, served as the barracks for the soldiers in training. The main building of the structure stood in the middle, with stained glass decorating the windows. The sun peered into the academy, revealing a myriad of soldiers about the training area.

"Come at me again, but this time step out farther to the left, thrust downward to incapacitate me at the back of the knee." A man with short auburn colored hair looked to the woman before him. Her hazel eyes studied the man, as the sun tickled her bronze colored skin.

The chevalier did as the young man instructed jutting outward in a quick motion before immediately thrusting her sword towards the back of the knee, an area left unprotected.

The man quickly turned to counter her blade, his dark brown eyes meeting her own gaze. He gave a smile to her. "See, you've got the hang of it," he remarked, looking around. "Come, it looks like everyone is calling it quits. I think I've worked up quite the appetite." He chuckled to himself before gesturing for the woman to follow him.

The two made their way inside the main structure of the academy. The red-haired chevalier looked around to see some of his fellow soldiers, acknowledging some of his comrades as he and the hazel-eyed woman continued forward.

Her eyes shifted to the taller knight-to-be in front of her. A smile etched its way onto her face, something that the young man himself picked up on.

"What," he asked jokingly, trading glances.

"You think you're better than me," the woman smiled as she looked forward. Her full lips pursed up in some sort of mixture of confidence in her observation and admiration for his skill.

"That's because I am, Faustine." He returned a smile, but never taking his eyes off of her. He looked to her with equal admiration and confidence, though his smile only showed signs of the latter.

"Claude Fay, truly the patron of humility." Faustine chuckled to herself, as she and Claude made their way into the mess hall. The room was filled with chatter among their fellow knights in training. The two made their way over to a banquet of Orlesian cuisine, picking up plates as they did so.

"That's Claude Fay de Churneau, m'lady." Claude performed a hammy bow before filling his plate with cheeses.

Seemingly ignoring his comment, Faustine reached for her own food, instead filling it with boar slices, potatoes, and carrots. "You should be eating more meat, Claude. Your sword-arm will grow weak without proper dieting. If General Belrose decided to come for a surprise inspection..." she went to continue her lecture before she was interrupted.

"I'd spend the next month cleaning the restrooms, I know Faustine. I've figured out his schedule." He took a firm, reassuring bite out of a small block of cheese on his plate. "I am fine," he smiled smugly to the woman beside him.

Faustine let out a sigh of mild frustration before making her way over to one of the tables. There, another man sat. As Claude followed behind her, the two waved to their friend. The young man gave a weak gesture back, as if he was too sore to wave properly.

"I take it you're still working on formations?" Faustine sat beside the chevalier, laughing slightly to herself.

"Elliot, you know that I'm willing to help you, if you'd only take it," Claude sat across from the two, taking another bite from his cheese. He looked on in concern at his friend. Elliot had been held back from being assigned an outfit, do to failing the training test.

"No, you know how much everyone here gossips like Chantry clerics. I'd never hear the end of it." Elliot managed to lift his arm unto the table, his face twisting in pain. "And I think my body is growing more accustomed to it," he let out in a sigh of exhaustion.

Elliot had barely touched any of his food, no doubt because of his 'ailment'. Claude looked to the two of them, before preparing to finish off that exquisite Rivaini cheese. He, however, saw the looks on the faces of Elliot and Faustine. He felt a looming presence over him.

His heart suddenly dropped, he prayed to the Maker that this wasn't a diet inspection. That would make the third one in a month. Turning slowly, he realized that it wasn't the General who was overhead, but his errand boy instead.

The chevalier, was relatively unskilled, and remained low in his rank. The General only really kept him around to send for others. What could he possibly want?

"Yes, Ser Arnold," Claude let out an exaggerated sigh as he addressed the man. He expected to be chided by his superior, but at this point, he was rather used to that.

"The..." the man paused for a moment. Elliot, Faustine, and Claude never took their gaze off of him. The three felt a sort of ominous tension escaping from his lips as he paused. "The General has requested you to his office, immediately."

Ser Arnold stood still, waiting for Claude to rise. He looked to his friends, and their stares met his own. There was a foreboding that nested in their eyes, a feeling of uncertainty. The General almost never sent for the students.

Claude rose from the table, stepping over the bench as he followed Ser Arnold out of the hall.

* * *

 **Imperial Highway, Orlais**

Constance sat upon a horse, it's brown fur pressed downward by a saddle riddled with supplies. In front of the two, was Adolf, strolling the horse along by gently pulling on its reins. Constance could feel the stead shiver from time to time. The harsh winds were enough to make her back tingle despite all of the layers she wore. She rubbed the horse's neck, it let out a small grunt of appreciation to her touch.

"We'll be taking the highway up into Gherlen's Pass through the Frostback Mountains," the dwarf kept his eyes forward as they made their way down the ancient elven road. Gherlen's Pass was the safest path through the mountains throughout the year. Adolf knew this, and he didn't risk all of this to put the two of them in even more danger. "Once we reach Orzammar, my contact will be there to bring you to safety."

"Is that your plan then dwarf, to sell me?" The girl looked to Adolf, his body obscured by the cloak. Her voice was cold, penetrating, as if to try and guilt the dwarf into turning back. She felt a mutual coldness from the man in front of her. Last night, she had almost killed him. She could have saved herself, but was she really in danger? The unknowns were what chilled her the most.

"I'm not selling you m'lady, if I wanted to do that, we sure as Stone wouldn't be headed to sodded Ferelden."

There was a silence that befell the highway, and the cold dissipated for a time as the mid-day sun peaked over the mountains. Constance looked up to the sky, it was filled with a frosty overtone, but still it had shades of vibrant blues. They reminded her of Summerday back in Churneau. The sun would reinvigorate the beautiful crystal grace flowers that grew around her home. She remembered picking some of them with her father.

She could see a vision of his face as he lifted her and twirled her around in the air. That memory was from a time long ago, and as she came out of her vision she was reminded of that fact. The winds howled, and she was reminded that Summerday in Churneau would forever remain only a dream now, some far off memory better left forgotten.

"I wish I had died at the palace," Constance uttered this loud enough for the dwarf to hear. Her words were biting, but carried a sense of apathy. She didn't think it was possible, but it grew even more silent. It was as if the wind brushing up against the snow was the only noise to be heard in all of Thedas. She wasn't entirely sure if she meant what she said, but she did know that she wanted a response from the dwarf. She needed him to say something.

"Perhaps then I would at least be with mother and father at the-"

Adolf tried to ignore the young girl's monologue but found himself unable to. His head turned to his left, eyes shifting towards Constance.

"You speak about death as if you understand it." He almost stopped there, but decided to continue. "If you had died at the palace, then that would be it... men who weave tales might make death seem glorious; but it never is. Death is a cry, a whimper, it is darkness." Adolf's voice carried a heaviness to it, one that brought both focus and fear to his words.

"You try to cling to what little life you have left. In that moment you are more vulnerable than you have ever been, more afraid than you have ever been." The dwarf's words softened for a moment, as if he had spoken from memory. He stopped for a moment, motioning his eyes back forward towards the path.

"No one wishes for death, truly. At most, you just wish for an end to life," he continued, sighing as he did so. "But _you_ , m'lady, have the power the change your life rather than end it. The pain you carry is a tool." His words became somewhat harsh and immediate again; enough to take the young girl by surprise.

She felt herself shatter somewhat, his words cutting through her. She almost felt a sense of guilt; Constance didn't want to die. She saw her mother cut down before her, but she herself, still wanted to live.

While his words bruised her, they also provided her with clarity. With truth. His sentiment almost made another Summerday in Churneau seem like a possibility.

"This world will eat you alive if you permit it to, your Ladyship. Be sure that it doesn't." The dwarf pulled on the reigns signaling the horse to continue once more.

Constance couldn't bring herself to smile, but she felt a warmth that she hadn't before. Her eyes, still somewhat glazed over, shifted to her front, as she leaned forward on the horse.

* * *

 **Academie des Chevaliers**

Claude stepped into the dimly lit office, as a powerfully gritty voice instructed him to. The low-lit candlelight played upon the men's armor, a dull orange tinting their silver plating.

"You wanted to see me, ser?" Claude carefully stepped forward, not out of fear, but respect. He looked to General Belrose. The man's graying black hair was slicked back, his eyes were a dull and tired brown. His face was littered with scars that rested upon the gentle wrinkles etched into his skin. Belrose had a look on his face that Claude hadn't quite seen before.

"Please, sit soldier," the elder man commanded this in an unusually soft tone. He hardly ever said please. Claude cautiously sat in a wooden chair that sat in front of the officer's desk.

"If this is about my dieting ser, I-" Claude was more than willing to be stuck with cleaning, but seeing Belrose like this was strange, even discomforting to him. Before he could continue, the General interrupted him.

"Claude..." the man paused for a moment. "I have received word from the Winter Palace today," Belrose closed his eyes for a moment, a particularly nasty scar over his eye melding together has he did so. He sighed, before continuing.

"Your parents...they were murdered," Belrose found it difficult to deliver the news, but managed to muster through it solemnly. "At this time, the guard patrol has been unable to locate your younger sister." Belrose looked to the younger man. "I...I am deeply sorry, my boy."

For a moment, Claude was entirely unable to process what the man before him was saying. Swallowing a bit of spit, he felt a lump in the back of his throat. The reality of his words sunk in. Claude's face twisted into one of bewilderment, as he immediately rose from his seat.

"If, there is anything you need Claude..." the younger man ignored his officer's words as he stood there for a moment. He felt an anger boil in his stomach, while mourning raked at his heart. Above all though, his head felt heavy with confusion. He quickly made his way out of Belrose's office as he headed for his quarters.

…

He sat in the same chair of his tiny room for what must have been an hour. His hands were trembling, and he had given up on trying to quell his tears. It took him a while to gain his composure before he reached over for ink and parchment. He felt a weakness within himself, but managed to begin writing. The noises coming from his quarters ranged from muffled crying, a sort of 'hacking' sound that came whenever he almost let more tears out, and the sound of his fist pounding the table.

It would take ten pieces of parchment before Claude finished the letter. As he pushed it to the side he felt his eyes burning. His heart sunk into his stomach, and his mind felt like a puddle. As his tears began to fall, he was unable to hold himself up anymore; his head collapsed into his arms. The only noise coming from his quarters now, was heartache.

* * *

 **Imperial Highway**

Constance and Adolf continued down the highway, as the sun crept behind the mountains. The evening brought a bitter temperature and an unwelcome darkness.

 _Dear Uncle,_

 _I've no doubt that you've heard of what has befallen mother as well as father. I pray to the Maker that we find the demon capable of committing such acts._

 _..._

Adolf looked ahead, a hand crept downward into his cloak, no doubt preparing himself in case anything tried to jump the two of them. He squinted as his eyes trailed the path ahead; continuing to lead the horse behind him.

...

 _My biggest fear however is Constance, a sentiment I'm sure you share. I urge you to look for her, and make sure that she is safe. Maker-forbid something happen to her._

 _..._

Constance rested on the horse's neck as it trotted slowly forward. Her eyes fluttered restlessly and constantly. She had been unable to fall asleep for most of the night. The darkness provided a sense of escape, comfort even. However, in that momentary comfort there was an uneasiness- within this darkness came unpredictability. That unpredictability was the scariest thing of all.

...

 _I will try and find out whatever I can from Val Royeaux, and I implore you to do the same back at home. Do not fret uncle, we will find Constance- I am sure of it. Be sure that you take care of yourself in these trying times._

 _Regards, Your Nephew, Claude Fay de Churneau_


End file.
